Chapter 19

The slim, brown leather-covered volume had lain in his nightstand for weeks now, since he had returned from the Thalmor Embassy. There had been so much going on that Marcus had completely forgotten about it. The small table by his bed was one he used to put journals and letters he'd picked up in his travels, and he was getting quite a collection by now. It wasn't that he was a pack-rat or anything, he just couldn't bring himself to toss them onto a trash heap and watch them burn.

Now he took it out. "FOR FIRST EMISSARY ELENWEN'S EYES ONLY", it read. This should prove interesting reading.

It was, indeed. It appeared Elenwen knew more about the preparedness of a second assault on the Empire than she would ever admit, even to her own associates.

"Maven has been a valuable ally," the journal read. "Her contacts with her 'business' partners has given us access to resources that will enable us to move more freely throughout this stinking abscess they call 'Skyrim'."

That had to refer to the Thieves' Guild, Marcus thought, or possibly the Dark Brotherhood, if those rumors were to be believed.

"Maven also assures me she is taking the necessary steps to turn the Rift over to the Imperials. The doddering fool who sits the throne now is completely unaware of what transpires under her own nose. Maven is convinced my agent works for her, but she vastly underestimates the hold I have over Riften's Steward."

Anuriel. She was a Thalmor plant.

I knew there was something about her I didn't like, Marcus thought grimly to himself. He didn't think too much of Riften's Jarl; the woman seemed far too clueless to be in such a position of power.

That's never stopped anyone from inheriting a throne before.

He was forced to agree with his inner dragon. But what steps was Maven taking? Was she planning some kind of coup, to overthrow Laila? And what would Laila be able to do, if it happened? How many of the guards were in Maven's pay?

Too many questions, not enough answers, he sighed in frustration. The journal in his possession was a start, but before he could openly accuse Maven of treason, he needed something stronger, some incontrovertible proof that she was plotting against Laila.

Deciding to shelve it for now, Marcus put the journal away and blew out the candle. He planned to spend a couple of days at home before making another attempt at getting to Winterhold. Hopefully, this time, he could actually get there without something waylaying him.

He spent most of the next two days at Warmaiden's working the forge, improving his weapons and armor, and trying some new techniques Adrianne taught him on working with orichalcum. He'd built up quite a large collection of ingots – iron, steel and corundum – and was running out of room in the cabinet by the front door where he stored it all. Since Adrianne had taken on a large contract from Idolaf Battle-Born to provide weapons and armor for the Imperials, Marcus offered to help her out and Adrianne agreed to buy whatever he could make. It was a nice little arrangement. Blaise spent most of his time watching his father work, and ended up helping Adrianne out with little tasks here and there.

"Your son's a hard worker," Adrianne told him, watching the boy scraping down leather hides. Tall for his age, and already showing signs of developing muscles, the red-haired boy easily manipulated the heavy scraper against the thick hide stretched on the frame. When he felt the hide begin to slack, he tugged on the thongs which held it in place to tighten it and refastened them securely before resuming his methodical rhythm.

"He always was," Marcus said proudly.

"You know," Adrianne mused now, "he's about the right age to begin an apprenticeship. What do you think?"

"I have no objections," Marcus smiled. "Why don't you ask him?"

Blaise was excited about the prospect of learning something other than tending goats and weeding gardens, and so it was arranged he begin his training immediately. Apprenticeships, Adrianne told him, usually ran for a period of five years. Blaise would work exclusively for her, do whatever tasks she set for him, and in return she would teach him everything she knew about the smithing trade. He would also receive a small stipend, pocket money to spend, which meant he would no longer need the allowance Marcus had been giving him.

At the end of his apprenticeship, he would be a full-fledged blacksmith in his own right, able to start his own business somewhere else, or continue to work for Adrianne if he chose. Marcus was delighted. It was a far better future than Blaise could have expected, working for Katla in Solitude.

"Papa, can I be an apprentice too?" Sofie asked later that evening as they sat down to the evening meal.

"Me too!" Lucia chimed in. "I wanna be an apprentice!"

Lydia chuckled. "What would you be an apprentice for, little one? I don't think you're big enough to lift a hammer."

"I didn't mean like Blaise," Lucia said. "I wanna be a bard!" She hadn't stopped talking about the Bard's College since they had returned from Solitude.

"It must be nice to be able to make your own music," Sofie said wistfully. Lucia had valiantly tried to teach her older sister the lute, but Sofie's fingers weren't as nimble and quick as Lucia's, and she just couldn't get it.

"Maybe you could learn the flute?" Blaise offered helpfully.

"I'd still need to use my fingers," Sofie said, grinning self-effacingly. "I'll just enjoy the music you two make."

"If you were old enough to learn a trade, Sofie, what might it be?" Lydia asked, curious.

The Nord girl considered carefully. "Well, I've always liked flowers, and Mister Quintus in Windhelm used to tell me what some of them could do, if they were mixed in potions. I think I might like to become an alchemist."

"You're a bit young to be an apprentice, sweetheart," Marcus said.

"I am now," Sofie nodded. "But I'll get older soon enough."

Marcus was discovering more and more the delightful differences in his children. Blaise's personality was the quiet determination of a hard worker and dedicated scholar. Lucia was a cuddle-bug, who loved nothing more than to curl up with her Papa and be told stories. Sofie was the calm in the center of a storm; a wise-beyond-her-years presence that would endure whatever life would throw at her and come out still standing on the other side. He loved them all, more deeply than he imagined possible.

There was a knock at the door, and Lydia went to answer it, returning shortly with a sealed parchment, which she gave to Marcus. He opened it and saw it was from someone named Calcelmo in Markarth.

"Calcelmo," he said thoughtfully. "Where have I heard that name before?"

"Wasn't he the one that wrote that book you have, Dad?" Blaise asked. "The one about the dwarves?"

"I have several books about the dwarves, son," Marcus replied.

"I'll go get it," Blaise said, jumping up. "I was reading it the other night." He left and went upstairs, to return quickly with the slim volume, simply entitled Dwarves, v.1. "See?" Blaise pointed out on the flyleaf the name "Calcelmo, Scholar of Markarth."

"I didn't know you knew him, Dad!" Blaise said now, impressed.

"I don't," Marcus chuckled, ruffling the lad's head when his face fell. "I've never met the man, and can't imagine why he'd be contacting me."

"What does his letter say, Papa?" Sofie asked eagerly.

Marcus cleared his throat and read the note out loud.

"Marcus Dragonborn,

It has come to my attention you may have recently acquired a certain Dwemer dagger from Mouldering Ruins. I'm not sure how such an object came to find itself resting there…but I've been trying to obtain one for my research.

If you still have it, or if not, find another one, I would be most appreciative if you were to bring it to me here in Markarth. I will pay handsomely.

Sincerely, Calcelmo."

How in the world did the man know what he'd picked up in that vampire lair? Marcus wondered.

Did you have anything to do with this? he asked the dragon in his mind, but the presence refused to answer.

"Are you going to go to Markarth, Dad?" Blaise asked now. "Are you going to see Calcelmo?" It was clear the man was some sort of hero to the boy, with his knowledge of the dwarves of ancient times. "Could I go with you?"

"You just started working for Adrianne, remember?" Marcus said gently. The boy's face fell.

"Oh, yeah, that's right." He recovered quickly, however, and put on a brave face. "But you could go and tell me all about it when you get back! And maybe…maybe he could sign the book for us?"

"We'll see," Marcus said. "Kind of makes me wish I had the other volumes in the set, now," he added, amused. "But I only found that one."

"Are you going to go tomorrow, Papa?" Lucia asked.

He hesitated. He really needed to get to Winterhold. But he'd put it off this long; a day or two more, just to see the man who had made an effort to contact him over a Dwarven-made dagger, wouldn't hurt anything. The children certainly seemed eager to find out why this Calcelmo had contacted their Papa. He'd be back in no time and then nothing would keep him from going up to the mages' College.

Markarth was literally a city carved out of stone. Set back against the rugged cliffs of the Reach, the entrance resembled Petra, a large, sprawling ancient city carved from the sandstone of the Jordanian deserts of his old world. The façade had been featured prominently in the third Indiana Jones movie.

Unlike Petra, however, Markarth was a booming, bustling city, and in another departure from the ancient Jordanian city, Markarth was open to the sky. While there was every possibility that at one time the majority of the buildings had been hidden deep within the cliff, some ancient near-catastrophe had opened it up, allowing fresh air and the elements to work their inexorable effects on the weathered stone.

As he passed through the front gates Marcus stopped for a moment to appreciate the sheer beauty and ingenuity of the lost race that had built such amazing constructs.

The shing of a blade being drawn grabbed his attention, however, and he saw a man closing in on a woman nearby, knife out and ready to take her life.

Without thinking, he leaped forward and with a quick disarming move, knocked the dagger out of the man's hand before wrestling him to the ground.

"No!" the man cried. "The Reach belongs to the Forsworn!"

"Stop struggling!" Marcus warned him as the guards approached.

"Step back, citizen," one of the guards warned Marcus. "We've got this under control."

Marcus wasn't so sure. The man seemed violent, still thrashing around. "Have you got anything to bind his wrists?" he asked, as the man valiantly tried to throw Marcus off his back.

"I said back away, citizen," the guard warned, leveling his sword. "Now!"

This is stupid! Marcus thought. This guy's going to make a break for it!

But the guards were closing in, menacingly, and Marcus reluctantly rose to his feet, still holding onto the attempted murderer.

"Let him go," the guard said warningly. Marcus did so. And as expected, the man bolted for the gates.

"The Reach belongs to the Forswor—aaahhh!" The last past was screamed in agony as the guards cut him down trying to escape.

"You wanted that to happen, you bastard," Marcus gritted out, clenching his fists in fury.

"Outsiders aren't welcome here in Markarth, stranger," the guard said smugly. "Best keep that in mind." To the gathering crowd, the man said, "There's nothing to see here. There are no Forsworn in the city. The Markarth guard has this all under control. Go on about your businesses!"

Marcus stood there for several minutes, seething, and making a valiant effort not to send the guard flying down the street with his Unrelenting Force.

The woman, who had almost been a victim, was being comforted by a Redguard jeweler near the corner of the general goods store, Arnleif & Sons.

"By the gods, that man was going to kill me!" She saw Marcus and smiled. "You saved my life! Thank you!"

"I'm glad I was able to act quickly," Marcus said, getting himself under control. "Will you be alright?"

"I think so," the woman said, a bit shakily. "My name is Margret, and I'm staying at the Silver-Blood Inn, over there." She pointed across the market square.

"Any idea who that man was?" Marcus asked. "Or why he was trying to kill you?"

"Not here," she whispered, so low he almost didn't catch it. "Come talk to me later, at the Inn." She thanked him again and made her way toward the Silver-Blood Inn.

Blinking in surprise, Marcus filed that away for further deliberation. This wasn't a random attempt, then. And Margret, whoever she was, seemed fully aware that someone was trying to have her killed. He'd go see Calcelmo first, then come back and try to find out more of what was going on.

"My gods," a young man with a tattooed face said. "Did you see that? A woman, nearly murdered right here in the streets! Good thing you were there to prevent it!"

Marcus shrugged. "I guess the gods had a hand in it," he said. He was learning, the longer he lived here in Skyrim, that there was a much more tangible influence from the Divines in this world than there had ever been in the world he'd left behind. He still firmly believed in his One God, but he couldn't deny that other Powers were at work here in Skyrim, and indeed, in this realm of Nirn itself.

"Yes, well, I'd better get going," the young man said. "Oh, I think you dropped this." He pressed a piece of parchment into Marcus' gauntleted hand.

"What's this?" Marcus asked in surprise. Then he dropped his voice. "Is this yours?"

"What?" the other man blinked. "No, that's yours. It must have fallen out of your pocket."

Except my Blades armor doesn't have pockets, Marcus thought to himself, knowing a ploy when he spotted it. This young man wanted something from him; something he trusted enough to put into a quickly scribbled note, but not something he wanted to admit out loud.

"Well, I hope the Eight give you more peace in the future," the young man said. "Farewell." He wandered off down the street.

Shaking his head, Marcus stuffed the note into his belt pouch. With all the guards hovering around, he had no intention of just opening it up and reading it here. He'd wait.

The Redguard jeweler, who introduced herself as Kerah, willingly pointed out Understone Keep to him when he showed her the note from Calcelmo.

"He lives and works up there," she said. "Since you're going up there anyway, do you think you could deliver this ring to him for me? He almost never leaves his studies, and I just can't get away to take it to him. It's already paid for."

"Aren't you afraid I'll just pocket it and walk away?" Marcus asked, a bit concerned about her trusting a complete stranger.

Kerah considered carefully. "Ordinarily, yes," she admitted. "But you just saved the life of a perfect stranger. I think I can trust you."

Humbled by her confidence in him, Marcus promised to deliver the ring, and began the long climb up the canyon sliced through by a gurgling stream and flanked by towering stone edifices and carved stairways.

A man in mage robes was standing outside a house nearby, arguing with one of the locals.

"It's abandoned," the local fellow said firmly. "It's always been abandoned." Marcus didn't hear any more as he continued on his way up.

Eventually he climbed the last set of stairs that took him to the entrance to Understone Keep. Aptly named, since it was clear the Jarl's palace was carved even deeper back into the stone cliff. Pausing to catch his breath, Marcus turned to look at the sun, already lowering in the sky. He'd left Whiterun early that morning, just as the sun was coming up, and in another hour or so the shops here would be closing for the day. He'd taken the carriage, simply because he was still sore from riding Sadie all the way from Riften to Windhelm and back to Whiterun. Blaise had promised to look in on her each day while he was away, and the girls had promised to give her apples and carrots so she wouldn't be "lonely", as Lucia put it. He grinned at the memory.

He hoped Calcelmo would still see him, late as it was. Farengar kept late hours, but only to continue his research, and the only other wizard Marcus knew was Wuunferth – and he didn't know that cantankerous old codger well enough to know what hours he kept.

Inside the main entrance to the keep it opened into a huge, carved-out natural cavern with Dwemer-hewn columns either supporting the roof or blocking the way collapsed across the thoroughfares. Straight ahead was a tunnel, and through it – and beyond it – Marcus caught a glimpse of a flight of stairs leading up to a well-lit area.

To the right, another flight of stone steps led to a set of bronze doors, guarded by a man in Markarth armor. To the left, a crumbling passage led off to another section of the cavern.

"What are you hiding, priest?" a man demanded angrily.

Ahead of him, Marcus saw two men standing near the tunnel which led forward. One was wearing the by-now-familiar robes of a priest of Arkay. The other was an older man in his forties, richly dressed and wearing finely-crafted steel armor.

"I'm not hiding anything," the priest insisted. "It's closed for a reason."

"Typical Imperial lies," the older man spat. "First you take away Talos, now you're keeping us from seeing our honored dead? You and the Jarl will answer for any desecration of my ancestors' bodies!"

"That's enough, Thongvor," the priest said wearily. "We're done here."

Thongvor looked as though he wanted to say more, than gave a disgusted sigh and strode off down the tunnel. The priest heaved a heavy sigh and turned to head down the left-side passage.

"Rough day?" Marcus asked sympathetically as he caught up with the man.

"Are you here to see the Hall of the Dead?" the priest asked. "I'm sorry. Like I told Thongvor, it's closed until further notice."

"No," Marcus said. "I'm not here to pay my respects." The relief on the priest's face was obvious, and telling. "I couldn't help but overhear that exchange. I wondered if there was something I could do to help?"

The priest hesitated for the barest moment, as though considering his options, then finally spoke. "All right," he said with a sigh. "I'm Brother Verelus, and I'm in charge of the Hall of the Dead here. I was going to suggest the Jarl hire someone to sort this mess out, but if you could look into it, I won't need to bother Igmund with it."

"What seems to be the problem?"

"Come with me," Verelus said, putting his hand on Marcus' arm and guiding him down the tunnel. He threw a look behind him at the guards flanking the tunnel. Thongvor was nowhere in sight.

They proceeded down the tunnel for a short way before it opened into another, much larger chamber. Across the bridge over a rushing stream was another huge, carved stone façade. To their right was a small work space complete with an arcane enchanter and alchemy lab. Two men in mages' robes were working in that area, and Marcus made a mental note that one of them must be this Calcelmo he'd come to see.

As Brother Verelus led Marcus to the right, through a stone gazebo, he said quietly, "We've discovered that some of the dead have been…eaten."

Marcus stopped in his tracks, revulsion and horror all over his face. Verelus nodded. "Flesh has been chewed off, bones were snapped to get at the marrow inside. We haven't caught anyone or anything…yet. It's like whatever it is knows when I'm there. If you can get to the bottom of this, the Priesthood of Arkay will reward you."

"I'll do it," Marcus said, taking a deep breath, "but not for any kind of reward. This is just sick and wrong!"

Brother Verelus nodded. "I agree, but I don't expect you to risk your life for nothing. Take my key, and be careful. I don't know what you'll find in there."

The Hall of the Dead was similar to others he'd been in, and by now he'd been through enough barrows that the atmosphere didn't bother him as much as he thought it might have in another place and time. It was quiet, but that was to be hoped for. Noises down here were not a good sign.

The torches still flickered in the drafts that eddied through the catacombs, and Marcus peered into the dim shadows of the niches to either side, to make sure nothing lurked there that shouldn't.

"Well, now," a female voice purred with some amusement. "Not many would walk blindly into a crypt, smelling of steel and blood, but not fear." The voice echoed around the chamber, bounced and distorted off the burial niches and sent a shudder down his spine. It was a low, husky, seductive voice, and it sent a curl through his belly, even as the hairs on the back of his head stood straight up.

"I feel the hunger inside of you," the voice continued. "Gnawing at you. You see the dead and your mouth grows wet. Your stomach growls." From seductive, the voice moved into cajoling. "It's all right. I will not shun you for what you are. Stay. I will tell you everything you have forgotten."

Marcus shook his head. Had he forgotten something? Maybe. The voice seemed to know more about it than he did. And she certainly seemed friendly enough.

A woman stepped out from around a corner into the light. Clad in studded armor and carrying a bow and sword, she looked to be in her late twenties, with blonde hair tied back from a face that bore a disfiguring scar down the left side – an old injury that had apparently taken the sight from her left eye.

"You were young when you first tasted human flesh, weren't you?" she asked sympathetically. "A brother or sister had died? An accident, of course. Then the hunger set in. Curiosity. What's the harm in just one bite?" She smiled warmly. "It's okay, now. You've found a friend who understands you. You can let go of your guilt."

Again, he felt the lethargy, the easy feeling of giving in. He could almost remember what he must have blocked from his mind—

YOU ARE A DRAGON, NOT A CANNIBAL!

The thought came through loud and clear from that presence in his mind, and Marcus snapped out of whatever charm the woman was attempting to lay on him.

"I'm not like you, bitch!" he snarled, furious at her for trying to make him believe otherwise.

"Then die, you filthy Imperial!" she swore, and immediately gestured with her left hand, limning herself with an iridescent blue glow. She'd put up some kind of magical shield around herself. Whipping the bow off her back, she retreated down the tunnel and fired off several shots with the bow before letting fly with an ice spike.

Marcus dodged the arrow, but the ice spike caught him in the thigh, and he growled as he gritted his teeth against the pain. He didn't want to pursue her deeper into the catacombs because he had no idea how far back into the cliff they went.

He drew his own bow and let fly with arrows of his own. The woman had been using iron; Marcus' were made of Dwemer metal, and did much more damage – if he hit with them, of course.

For several minutes they sniped at each other, firing off shots and retreating, but Marcus had no intention of fighting a war of attrition.

"Laas," he whispered, and found where she was hiding. He could play ring-around-the-rosie with her all day as they circled around the tombs, but he wanted to end this in his lifetime.

He deliberately stepped into the open and made enough noise to draw her out of hiding. The Aura Whisper had faded now, and he felt his Thu'um recharge.

The woman scuffed her boot across the stone floor, and Marcus turned his head in that direction.

"ZUN!" he Shouted, and to her extreme dismay, her bow went flying. She was not without weapons, however. Electricity charged up in her hand and shot forth, enveloping him. His muscles screamed in protest as everything seized up.

The woman gave a satisfied smile as she advanced with her sword raised to cut him down while still concentrating the flow of electricity at him.

With a supreme effort, Marcus managed to get Dragonsbane up in time to block the blow. He swiped at her with the Blades sword in his other hand, but she dodged out of the way and laughed.

Again, that stream of sparks hit him, and again, Marcus felt every tendon go rigid. He'd almost rather she'd used a cold spell. He could handle that element better. The Blades sword connected with hers as it blocked a cut that would have hurt really badly had it landed. He swept out with Dragonsbane again, and she screeched as she retreated, the spell turning to a healing spell as she repaired the damage done.

Marcus ducked around the corner and pulled a healing potion of his own out of his belt pouch. It wasn't much, but he couldn't take the time to dig through his pack. Chugging the potion, he sent forth another Aura Whisper to locate the woman. She was probably not more than fifty feet away, but there was a twisting corridor between them with lots of places to hide.

Luckily, what the woman had failed to realize was that this section of catacombs didn't extend all the way up to the roof of the cavern above. The passages and niches had been carved down into the floor of the cave. The tops of the niches were the smooth stone of the original floor. Marcus looked up and considered. Ten feet up, maybe twelve. If he was careful and quiet, he could do it.

As quickly as he could, he took a short running leap to grab the lip of the highest niche he could reach and pull himself up. Hand over hand, until his feet found purchase on the niche below, he crawled to the top of this section of tombs. Crouching, he paused, trying to steady his breathing, and once more used Aura Whisper to locate his quarry. She was moving carefully and slowly through the twisting corridor, pausing to listen and look around.

But she didn't look up. No one ever looks up, Marcus grinned to himself.

He waited until she had passed his position, then leaped down lightly behind her. She whirled, eyes wide with fear.

"Miss me?" he grinned. "FUS RO DAH!"

Bones, crockery and dust blew everywhere as the woman was smashed against the niche behind her. There was a distinctive snap! as the bones in her neck broke, and she slumped to the floor. Cautiously, he prodded her body to be sure she wasn't faking, and then knelt to feel for a pulse. There was nothing.

Searching her body, he discovered a small journal that told him she was Eola, a devotee of Namira, Daedric Prince of Decay; she was a cannibal, and part of a coven that operated out of Reachwater Rock – or at least, they had, until the draugr had awakened and driven them out of Namira's temple. The names of other coven members were also listed in the book. Hogni Red-Arm, Banning - Markarth Stables, Lisbet - Arnleif & Sons, Sigar. Marcus pocketed it. The priest of Arkay waited for a report, and he had to see Calcelmo before he could return home.

Looking down at the woman, Eola, once more, Marcus tried to feel something; pity, remorse, sadness. But he felt nothing. Eola had attempted to turn him to her cause, to charm him into believing he had repressed memories of cannibalism. If not for his inner dragon, he might have succumbed.

You're welcome.

Brother Verelus was most grateful that the situation had been resolved, but was suitably disturbed by the revelation that there had been a cannibal in the Hall of the Dead. Marcus wasn't sure whether or not to confide in him the names of the others members of Namira's coven; he didn't know them, and wasn't sure what their positions might be in Markarth. He really didn't want to open up another can of worms, so in the end, he kept the knowledge to himself and said nothing.

He accepted Brother Verelus' amulet in return for his services, but only because the man insisted. "It will boost your health while you wear it," he told Marcus, "and I can get another one. Please, take it."

From there it was a short walk over to the area by the stream where the two mages were working. As it happened, they were not men at all, but Altmer.

"Excuse me," he began, "I'm looking for Calcelmo—"

"What are you doing here?" the older of the two elves snapped at him. "The excavation site is closed!"

"What?"

"I don't need any more workers or guards," he said dismissively, turning back to his work.

"I'm not here to work," Marcus said, irritated. "If you're Calcelmo, I was actually looking for you."

This seemed to send Calcelmo into a tirade. "I told you I'm not hiring any more guards!" he bit out. "Why do you people always bother me when I'm trying to finish my research? You idiot! Do you even know who I am? The most recognized scholar on the Dwemer in all of Tamriel, and you people keep bothering me! I…I—"

Suddenly, he seemed to deflate, as though he realized how badly he had overreacted. "I'm sorry," he said contritely. I…I got too excited. I'm in the middle of some very…stressful work and I…and I shouldn't have yelled. How can I help you?"

At first Marcus was tempted to tell the old mage to go to Oblivion. He'd had supervisors and bosses lash out at him like that, however, and knew that he was merely the unfortunate recipient of a backlash of stress being released. Deciding to let it pass – this time – he introduced himself as the one to whom Calcelmo had sent the letter regarding the Dwemer dagger.

"Ah!" Calcelmo said, enthusiastically. "So you're Marcus Dragonborn! Delighted to meet you, sir! And yes, I'm still very much interested in that Dwemer dagger, if you still have it."

Now this was more like it. After talking for several more moments, Marcus pulled the dagger out of his pack and showed it to the old Altmer. His nephew, Aicantar, looked on in mild amusement while Calcelmo launched into a lecture about the Dwemer, to whom he had devoted his life's work.

"Their history and culture is all around us in Markarth," Calcelmo said. "A race of stonecutters, artisans and engineers. They invented machines and built elaborate underground cities where they researched powers to rival the gods themselves. And then, at a time we are still not sure when, they disappeared. The whole people, all at once. Leaving behind only their works."

No wonder Blaise is fascinated by it all, Marcus thought, amused. He mentioned to Calcelmo his son's interest in the Dwemer, and the old mer was more than delighted to autograph the volume Marcus brought with him, and presented the other two volumes – autographed, of course – to him as well. Marcus felt it was payment enough for the dagger. And he knew Blaise would be thrilled.

"Oh, before I forget," Marcus said, "the Redguard jeweler down in the market wanted me to give this to you."

"Kerah!" Calcelmo said. "Of course! I'd forgotten about this! Poor, woman, she's been so patient with me. What can I give you for your trouble?"

"I don't suppose you'd let me see your museum?" Marcus suggested.

Calcelmo turned this over in his mind, "Well…" he began.

"I'd love to be able to tell my son about all the amazing things you've discovered," Marcus coaxed.

"I don't suppose there's any harm in it," Calcelmo agreed. "But I must insist that my laboratory remain undisturbed."

Marcus promised he wouldn't go further than the museum, and spent a couple of very pleasant hours wandering around the displays and exhibits, until the guards pointedly reminded him it was past closing time.

He retraced his steps back down the canyon to the Silver-Blood Inn. It was late, and he was very hungry. Tomorrow he intended to explore more of the town before he returned to Whiterun, but for now all he wanted was food and a soft, comfortable bed.

The Silver-Blood Inn was run by a surly man named Kleppr, and his harpy of a wife named Frabbi. Two younger people, a boy about seventeen or eighteen years old, and a girl who was perhaps a year or two younger, stood nearby, sweeping and polishing while the woman harangued her husband.

"All the wood furniture in this place is rotting to the core. Do you know why that is, Kleppr?"

Kleppr never looked up from wiping down the bar. "I don't know, my darling wife. I assume you're going to tell me?"

Frabbi scowled. "It's rotten because the wood is cheap, and it's soaked with ale!" She advanced on him threateningly, but it didn't faze him a bit. Clearly, this sort of exchange was commonplace between these two. "Now we'll have to replace all the furniture before the bugs set in!"

"Don't worry, my love," Kleppr said in a bored tone. "Just show the bugs your adoring face, and they'll scurry away in complete fear in no time."

One of the patrons nearby sniggered, but quickly buried his face in his mug of ale at the look Frabbi shot him.

"You're an idiot, Kleppr," she sneered. "Why did I ever marry you?"

Kleppr merely rolled his eyes. "Not a day goes by I don't ask that question myself, my dear," he said with a long-suffering sigh.

"Please don't mind the yelling," the young girl said, sidling over to him. "My parents are always going at each other."

"They shouldn't," Marcus said quietly. "Not in front of you, and not in front of their customers. It's not healthy, and it's not good for business."

The girl blinked at him. "You're the first person to ever feel that way!" she exclaimed softly. "Most people here are used to them by now. My father's not really a bad sort. He gives me plenty of spending money."

"Money doesn't always equal happiness," Marcus said.

"Then you're in the wrong city, stranger," she said wearily. "Blood and silver are what run through Markarth." She scurried away to finish polishing the silver before her mother caught her slacking off.

Marcus shook his head and made his way over to the counter. "I'd like a room for the night," he told Kleppr, paying the man.

"Sure thing," he said unctuously. "It's yours for a day. Right this way." He led Marcus down a short corridor and opened a bronze door on the left side. "Let me know if you need anything else," Kleppr smiled.

"Uh..wait a moment," Marcus forestalled him. "Where's the bed?"

Kleppr blinked, then smiled. "Ah, I forget! If you haven't been to Markarth it comes as a bit of a shock."

"What do you mean?"

"The Dwemer carved the entire city out of stone ages ago," the innkeeper explained. "Everything in this city is carved from stone." He pointed to what Marcus had mistaken as a low wall. "Even the beds."

You've got to be fucking kidding me.

"Pleasant dreams," Kleppr smirked as he left the room.

Marcus had slept in some rather unpleasant places before, but a stone bed was a new one. Well, before he retired for the night, he was going to get a decent meal – he hoped it also wasn't carved from stone.

Back out in the common room, Marcus saw the woman from the marketplace he'd seen earlier in the day: Margret, the one who had almost become a victim of murder most foul. He crossed the room and sat down nearby, ordering a meal from Frabbi as he did so.

"Evening," he greeted the woman. She started, apparently lost in thought, then smiled when she saw it was her savior.

"Well, hello! Thank you again for saving my life earlier!" she gushed. "I can't tell you how grateful I am!"

"Glad I was able to help," Marcus said. He lowered his voice. "You were going to tell me why someone would try to kill you?"

She nodded. "Yes, but not here. Come to my room in an hour," she insisted. "I'm at the end of the hall down there."

And doesn't that just sound like an invitation for mutual entertainment? Marcus thought with some amusement. Still, that wasn't remotely on his mind at the moment. Well, perhaps very remotely. But he was more interested in finding out why she'd been targeted in the first place.

You really can't resist a mystery, can you?

Grinning to himself he muttered, "Nope. I'm hopeless."

An hour later he knocked discreetly on Margret's door. When she opened it, he was ever-so-faintly disappointed to see that she was still in her street clothes. Thankfully, he had decided not to make presumptions about her intentions, and was still in his armor.

She invited him in and closed the door behind him, gesturing for him to take the chair while she sat on the stone bed.

"So," Marcus began, "what's this all about? What's going on here in Markarth?"

"That's what I'd like to know," Margret said. "You're an Imperial, so I'm going to trust you. I don't think you'd turn me over to the Silver-Bloods."

"The Silver-Bloods?" Marcus asked. "Who exactly are they, and what have they got to do with someone trying to kill you. That guy said something about the Forsworn."

"I know he did," Margret admitted, "but I'm sure he was sent by Thonar Silver-Blood."

"And he is…?" Marcus prompted.

Margret gave a sigh. "The Silver-Bloods are, with the exception of Jarl Igmund, the most powerful family here in Markarth. They practically own everything; this inn, most of the mines around the Reach, and Cidhna Mine right here in Markarth."

"There's a mine here in the city?" Marcus was surprised.

"Yes," Margret said. "It's used as a maximum security prison. The prisoners mine silver ore until they are released from their sentence, or they die, if they're in there for life. They say no one escapes Cidhna Mine."

"Okay," Marcus said. "Why would Thonar Silver-Blood send a goon after you to kill you?"

"Goon?" Margret gave a little laugh. "I like the sound of that. It's descriptive!" She sobered. "Anyway, to answer your question I have to confess that I'm not just a traveler here. I'm an agent sent by the Empire, by General Tullius himself, to try and procure the deed to Cidhna Mine."

"Why?"

Margret gave him a withering look. "The war effort, silly. Cidhna Mine is one of the richest silver mines in all of the Reach, maybe even Tamriel itself. Jarl Igmund is loyal to the Empire, but we aren't sure about Thonar; his brother Thongvor has been an outspoken supporter of Ulfric Stormcloak."

"And the last thing the Empire wants is for all that money coming out of the mine to go to the Stormcloaks," Marcus mused.

Margret nodded. "Yes! Now you're getting it. I've been poking around, asking questions, and even tried making an offer to buy the mine from Thonar, but he wouldn't sell. I thought maybe I'd try to acquire the deed to the mine in a less…direct way."

"You tried to steal it," Marcus said bluntly, and Margret had the grace to look shamefaced.

"Thonar caught me snooping around the Treasury House and had me thrown out. The next thing I knew, that man in the marketplace tried to kill me. I'm sure he was sent by Thonar."

"You can't make an accusation like that without proof," Marcus said. "Do you know who he was, by the way?"

"No idea," Margret said. "From the way he was dressed, he was probably one of the smelter workers. Most of them are natives of the Reach. They all live down in the Warrens."

"The Warrens?" Marcus asked. "What's that?"

"It's a city under the city," Margret explained. "All of the poor of Markarth end up there, and they're nearly all Reachfolk."

Marcus nodded, then shot her a keen look. "They'll try again, you know," he told her. "One attempt failed, but if you really are on to something, they won't stop until they take you out."

Margret gave an unhappy nod. "I know," she said. "My cover here is well and truly blown. I'll have to go back to General Tullius and report my failure. He'll have to send someone else to make another attempt. We can't let Ulfric Stormcloak get his hands on Cidhna Mine. If he does, this war could drag on for years."

And while it does, the Thalmor rebuild their strength to crush the Empire for good.

When had he become a supporter of the Empire? He was the Dragonborn, wasn't he? He should be keeping out of politics.

"I thought the Greybeards didn't involve themselves in politics," he'd said to Master Arngeir.

"We do not," Arngeir had replied. "But politics has a habit of wanting to involve itself with us, and if we do not stay informed, we could easily be led astray from the path of true enlightenment."

Well, he didn't know about a path of true enlightenment, but he would be damned if he would let a racist bigot like Ulfric Stormcloak tear apart his newly adopted country in a mad bid for power.

He smiled now at Margret. "Tell me what I can do to help."

[Author's Note: Next up, Marcus does some investigating of his own, and finds out just how deep the corruption goes in Markarth….as deep as Cidhna Mine. I had to include the "Taste of Death" quest here, resolved as Marcus would do, because the quest in the game revolted me. Even the Dark Brotherhood questline didn't give me the willies as much as that one did.]